Road To Victory
by Vaecordia
Summary: "Listen, I had thought," Trumper says as he strolls into the lavish room. He turns around to face the other. "I can help you." Confidence is omnipresent in his voice, and Anatoly isn't sure he likes the sound of it. Anatoly/Freddie, and some angst.


Whooooop first Chess fic! This is based off of anatolysergievsky's idea (on tumblr).

Basically set during Talking Chess. No warnings, except some angst and the fact that I am in no way a professional chess player, I just sometimes happen to play it - I'm not terribly good, so most of the game and advice Freddie gives is proooobably pretty terrible. Enjoy!

* * *

Of course the moment he picks up a chess piece to move it across the board has to be the same one his train of thought is interrupted. The knocking on the door is incessant and quickly irritating. Anatoly places the piece back on the board, hoping that his silence is misinterpreted as his absence. When the knocking is replaced by a voice, however, that thought is scratched very fast.

"Sergievsky!"

Anatoly's thoughts pause for a moment. A lot of questions run through his mind, and so he makes his way to open the door to the answer. And by extension, to Frederick Trumper, standing there in a characteristic, pristine white suit and his hands in his pockets.

"What are you doing here?"

To his credit, Trumper looks slightly uncomfortable. His hand comes to his neck, rubbing it awkwardly. "This is just as unpleasant for me as it is for you, believe me," he says, shifting his weight from one leg to another.

Anatoly's tone is probably more confused than he intends for it to be. "Then why are you here?"

Trumper sighs. "Can I come in or not?" He asks, motioning awkwardly to the hotel room behind Anatoly.

Anatoly pauses for a moment, before stepping out of the way. "I suppose so."

"Listen, I had thought," Trumper says as he strolls into the lavish room. He turns around to face the other. "I can help you." Confidence is omnipresent in his voice, and Anatoly isn't sure he likes the sound of it.

"I think you've 'helped' enough already, Trumper," Anatoly says as he closes the door, annoyance seeping into his voice. "Last you came to see me you were teaming up with Molokov," he notes, his tone less neutral than he would've wanted.

"I wasn't - I - that's not the point!" Trumper says irately, remembering the meeting that ended on a worse note than it started with, and flops down onto the bed. "I was not, and I'm not now," he grumbles.

"So, why are you here?"

"I said it already, I might be able to help you," Trumper repeats.

Anatoly is still standing, and looks at the American. "I hope this is not related to Florence."

It's almost a laugh that Trumper lets out, but not quite. "It's not. It's not about _anyone_. Or even money."

Now, Anatoly's interested. He hasn't often seen Trumper talk about anything lately but his family, Florence, or money. He's intrigued, and it's probably apparent on his face. "Then why are you here?"

"I'm here to talk about chess," Trumper says, and Anatoly's eyebrows shoot upwards. Trumper sees it. "Don't look so surprised, I used to play chess, you know," he says sarcastically.

"I know that," Anatoly states. "But that's the last thing you've been playing recently."

"Chess was my life. Still is - why do you think I'm here? Anyway, the why doesn't matter - I'm here to _help_ you, are you going to listen to me or not?"

Anatoly motions for him to continue, interested in hearing what new ideas Trumper's volatile mind had come up with.

"I've seen Viigand play, and I've watched his game. His King's Indian Defence. I think he's trying to play some kind of variation of the Main Line by attacking queenside, but-"

"Why would you help me?" Anatoly interrupts.

Trumper pauses. "What d'you mean, why?"

Anatoly is now more confused than he was. "What do I mean? Why would you want to help me now, of all times? I would have thought that after last year you would have been less than keen to help me."

"What, you mean dethroning me and gallivanting off with my second?"

Anatoly rolls his eyes. "It wasn't gallivanting. And she left you to be my _second_." He doesn't elaborate on it, but he can feel that Trumper's curious.

"Wait, _just_ your second?" He asks, a hint of disbelief in his voice. Anatoly can't really blame him - the media's done its fair share in weaving an intricate story.

" _Yes_ , just my second, despite what the media thinks the story is, she is my second, and second only."

Trumper makes a sound of acknowledgement, before shaking his head. "That's... that's not even the point." He leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and his hands together in front of him. "Viigand's Indian Defence is flawed, it makes very little sense at this one point. He moves his kingside pawn-"

"I appreciate your... help, Trumper, but really, I have no reason or intention to win."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Trumper's disbelieving expression. "What?" Trumper is standing now, trying to catch Anatoly's gaze - which he's pointedly directed at the chessboard on the table. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously, I cannot win - as you, Molokov, Walter and my wife made very clear," Anatoly snaps, and Trumper huffs.

"So now _you_ 've decided to play politics, huh? What is it now? What've they promised you? Your freedom? Safety? Money? Wouldn't have pegged you for the type, it's more _my_ thing to-"

"If I lose, I can guarantee my wife's and children's safety, along with the liberation of Florence's father and some valuable, imprisoned American and Weste-"

" _Can_ you guarantee it? What, did they tell you that?" Trumper's voice is almost irritated. "Who's the one spewing someone else's words now? I know Walter when I hear his words."

"Well of course it's Walter's words, he's the one who helped convince me - I must put my family first, and Florence-"

"Oh fuck you!" Trumper exclaims, his temper flaring. "That didn't bother you last year, or for the first five games, or when I saw you last time, or any previous time! So why now? What have they said they'll give you this time? Let you stay in the West? What's the point, Sergievsky?" Trumper says, his anger seeping into annoyance. "Believe me, if there's one thing your whole life comes down to, it's now. You are the current, defending Chess World Champion. You are up against a whole bunch of political scheming shit, and let me tell you - play chess instead! I played politics - well, money, actually - and look where that got me! You are World Champion. If you want to wither away as another name in a book, fine by me, suit yourself - lose. But you have played chess your entire life - _I know_ \- so if you want to play chess just a bit more, if you want your life to extend just that bit further, listen to me, damn it!" Trumper crosses his arms, and Anatoly turns to look at him. "Your entire life is made of chess. I know how it is, I'm the same. Either you surrender and betray literally everyone, or you prove me wrong, show me you have a spine, and then you can look at yourself in the mirror. It's your pick, to be honest."

Anatoly is silent.

"Anatoly, _think,_ " Trumper pleads, switching to his first name. "What's the one thing you've always practised for? What's the one thing you live for? You left your wife and your family to their own fate the moment you defected. If you go back, what do you think they'll do? Let you walk around free? No, you'll be locked up because you're a Western spy now or something! And Florence - Jesus Christ, her father might be dead, imprisoned, or _worse_ , he might be fine if he was a collaborator. I've spoken to Molokov and Walter - neither of them care about Florence or her dad, Walter's in it to try to get an American _spy_ out of Russia. You can't know for sure what they'll do. And if you lose, but don't go? What the hell is the point then? You can win, Anatoly - if you focus on the game. If you win, Anatoly, you'll have won the most important match played here. Chess. Not the politics, not the romance, not the strategic game of manipulation and deals and all - pure and simple chess."

"Why do you care, anyway?"

Trumper shifts awkwardly. "I don't want to see you make the same mistake I did - getting caught up in every other kind of game played here, and basically checkmating myself. You have your chance, now will you listen to what I tell you or not?"

Anatoly considers it, chewing the option of just telling the American to get out of his room. Or he can sit, and listen, and do what he did come here, to Bangkok, to do.

Did he really have anything more to lose?

"Fine," Anatoly states, and Trumper's face turns smug.

"Knew you'd see it the right way," Trumper says.

"I swear if you get cocky, I will toss you out of my room, Trumper," Anatoly warns.

Trumper turns to him with hands up in the air. "Fine, fine. But listen, you can call me Freddie, it's better now that I'm helping you. 'Trumper' sounds awkward."

Anatoly raises an eyebrow and motions to the chessboard.

"Oh, right, right." Freddie sits down, and arranges the pieces to fit the picture he has in his mind. "Right, so he's been messing around with an Indian Defence. C4 up two, black knight to-"

"I know how an Indian Defence works, I have played chess before."

"Right. So he seems to be trying to play a Sämisch Variation - some kind of it... This is where it gets weird and illogical. The problem is, he gets too ambitious."

"He has to, otherwise he's playing into a draw-"

"No, I mean as in he's arrogantly on the offence."

"His defence,..." Anatoly's voice trails off.

"Exactly. He makes the gambit, and moves his sights to his completely cluttered left flank. Your knight, c6, is two moves away from checking the king and threatening the rook in the corner. Viigand knows that you have no major threatening moves up your sleeve, because his bishop is here, on c5. You move your knight to a5, out of harm's way. Then if you've managed to keep your queen by this point - that's not gonna be easy, he's vicious about that one, but you can do it - you can move her to take the pawn between the bishop and the knight. He's too arrogant, and he doesn't move his bishop but his right rook, and so all you need to do is manage to get your queen cosy right next to the king and protected by that back-row rook you got here, d8. And _voilà_ , nice and easy."

Anatoly nods, his hand over his mouth in thought. "And what did you say about him being vicious about the queen?"

"Right, his main aim a lot of times is to rid you of your queen. So, just, er - just be really careful about double attacks, because when he gets one, it's good. He usually does them with his knight, sometimes with a bishop. He's reluctant to play with his rook, but if he has his queen then he'll use it too if he's sure you can't do anything to her."

"So, watch out for double attacks and attack his forgotten defence. Right."

"Spot on. I mean he's not a textbook player, he's a chess grand master - so he can be very imaginative when he wants to, but he's typical Russian." When Anatoly glares at him, he looks confused. "What? I never said you're typical, you defected!"

Anatoly should really be getting used to his antics by now. "Fine, well, that's all very good. Er - thank you, I guess," he says as Freddie stands, and he extends a hand to the American.

Freddie looks at it for a moment, as if he's hesitating. After a moment, he smiles and takes the hand, shaking it curtly. "Yeah, it's nothing, you know? It's just a chess champion helping another one," Freddie says.

He lets go. Freddie looks at Anatoly, as if he's somewhere else, before he turns away and looks about to walk out the door.

Anatoly starts to ask the American if something's wrong, but-

He never gets to the asking part.

It takes him a moment to realise that Freddie's kissing him. And that takes even longer to process in his head.

When he does, however, it's probably not what Trumper expected. Anatoly grabs his shoulders and pushes Trumper away from him, shock still gripping him. He stands there, silent, words that never make it past his mouth flashing in his mind. Trumper looks about to say something, but Anatoly cuts him off.

"Go."

There's nothing more, nothing but that two-lettered word, but it has an immediate effect on the other.

"I didn't - I'm sor-"

"Just - just go," Anatoly repeats, his voice unsteadier than it had been.

And Freddie backs away, looking ready to say something. But in the end, the door just shuts with a soft 'click'.

Anatoly's left standing in his room, not quite understanding what the hell really just happened.

* * *

" _Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the final game in the Chess World Championship of 1985 in Bangkok, Thailand! Defending champion Anatoly Sergivesky, who only last year defected from the Soviet Union after a stunning victory in Merano, Italy, is currently tied with Soviet Chess Grandmaster, Leonid Viigand at 5 to 5. This game is decisive, and whoever wins it wins the tournament."_

Freddie adjusts himself in his seat, his eyes trained on the setting in front of him. The two Russians are facing each other over the chessboard. Viigand leans comfortably back in his chair. Anatoly is less relaxed, but it's only visible to Freddie's accustomed eye - after all, he spent more than ten matches seeing the same thing in front of himself. Anatoly's back is straight, but not tense. He's focused, eyes only for the game.

All in all, Freddie only hopes that his rash decision didn't cost Anatoly his victory. What if Anatoly had decided not to trust Freddie's advice, just because of his stupid selfishness?

There were few things Freddie couldn't forgive himself, but _that_ would probably make the top of the list.

The game starts, and Freddie occasionally forgets to make commentary on the game's progression. They're both immediately at each other's throats, going for the kill. And it doesn't take long for Viigand to position his pieces just right and - there, his game is set up, and it's exactly what Freddie was talking about. It's Anatoly's turn, and Freddie sees the way his eyes flicker sideways for a moment.

Freddie just _knows_ that this is the decisive moment, and he's not sure when he started holding his breath.

Anatoly picks up his knight, and places it in a5, and Freddie breathes a sigh of relief. Anatoly is playing the line after all, and Viigand hasn't noticed in the least. His next move is the exact one Freddie predicted the previous evening, and the game unfolds from there. It's a red carpet for Anatoly, and-

Viigand's eyes widen just a fraction, and that's when he realises how deep he's in trouble. Anatoly's trap is perfect, and all Viigand can do is try for a draw. And Freddie sees how he's obviously starting to be afraid, his eyes darting about. He moves his rook, desperate to try and unravel Anatoly's plan, but all he gets is his Queen taken from him.

It's so quick and swift, it's over three moves later. The crowd erupts, and Freddie leans back in his chair.

"Thank _Jesus_ ," he sighs in relief, and he sees the way Anatoly's eyes momentarily dart to the camera, as if he's looking straight at Freddie, and just maybe-

 _Maybe_ he hasn't lost all hope.

* * *

 **A/N:** Argh, I loved writing this and hated it at the same time! It's so hard getting their characters _just_ right and it took me ages to figure out an ending! Well, anyway, now it is finally written, and it is here, and I really hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
